Sometimes I Lie. Alice Feeney

course I should. You should have called me sooner.’

      ‘I wish I hadn’t called you at all.’

      I don’t understand the conflict between the two dark shadows looming over me. Claire and Paul have always got on.

      ‘Well, I’m here now. What happened?’ she asks, coming closer.

      ‘They found her a few miles from the house. The car is a wreck.’

      ‘Nobody cares about your bloody car.’

       I never drive Paul’s car. I never drive.

      ‘Everything will be OK, Amber,’ says Claire, taking my hand. ‘I’m here now.’ Her cold fingers wrap themselves around my own and it takes me back to when we were young. She always liked holding hands. I didn’t.

      ‘She can’t hear you, she’s in a coma,’ says Paul, sounding strangely pleased.

      ‘A coma?’

      ‘Proud of yourself?’

      ‘I know you’re upset, but this isn’t my fault.’

      ‘Isn’t it? I thought you had a right to know, but you’re not welcome here.’

      My mind is racing and I don’t understand anything that is being said, I feel like I’m in a parallel universe where nobody around me makes sense any more.

      ‘What happened to your hand?’ Claire asks.

      What is wrong with his hand?

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘You should get a doctor to look at that.’

      ‘It’s fine.’

      The room I can’t see starts to spin. I struggle to stay on the surface, but the water swirls around and inside me, swallowing me back down into the darkness.

      ‘Paul, please. She’s my sister.’

      ‘She warned me not to trust you.’

      ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

      ‘Am I?’ Everything is so much quieter than before. ‘Get out.’

      ‘Paul!’

      ‘I said, get out!’

      There’s no hesitation this time. I hear my sister’s heeled feet retreat from the room. The door opens and closes and I am alone again with a man who sounds like my husband, but behaves like a stranger.

Then

       Monday, 19th December 2016 – Evening

      I get off the train and make my way along the quiet, suburban streets towards home and Paul. I’m still not convinced anything can be done to save my job, but maybe this will at least buy me enough time to do what I need to do. I won’t tell him. Not yet. I might never need to.

      It wouldn’t be the first job that I’ve lost since we’ve been together. My career as a TV reporter came to an abrupt end two years ago when my editor got a bit too friendly once too often. He had a rather hands-on approach. One evening his hand slipped right up under my skirt and the next day someone keyed his BMW in the staff car park. He thought it was me and I never got on air again after that. I never got groped again either. I quit before he found an excuse to fire me and it was a relief to be honest, I hated being on TV. But Paul was devastated. He liked that version of me. He loved her. I got under his feet at home all the time. I wasn’t the woman he married. I was unemployed, I didn’t dress the same and I no longer had any stories to tell. Last year, at a wedding, the couple sat next to us asked what I did. Paul answered before I had a chance to. ‘Nothing.’ The somebody he loved became a nobody he loathed.

      He said it made it hard for him to write, me being at home all the time. He had a fancy shed built at the bottom of the garden, so he could pretend that I wasn’t. Claire spotted the advert for the Coffee Morning job six months ago, she sent me the link and suggested I apply. I didn’t think I’d get it, but I did.

      I stumble up the garden path and feel inside my handbag for my key. I’m puzzled by the sound of music and laughter inside the house. Paul is not alone. I remember that I tried calling him this afternoon but he never answered and didn’t bother to call me back. My hands shake a little as I open the front door.

      They are sitting on the sofa laughing, Paul in his usual seat, Claire in mine. An almost empty bottle of wine and two glasses pose for a tedious still life on the table in front of them.

      She doesn’t even like red.

      They look a little shocked to see me and I feel like an intruder in my own home.

      ‘Hello, Sis. How are you?’ says Claire, getting up to kiss me on both cheeks. Her designer skinny jeans look as though they’ve been sprayed on, petite pedicured feet protruding beneath them. Her tight, white top reveals a little more than it should as she stands up. I don’t remember seeing it before, must be new. She dresses as though we are still young, as though men still look at us that way. If they do, I don’t see them. Her long blonde hair has been straightened within an inch of its life and is tucked behind her ears as though she is wearing an invisible Alice band. Everything about her appearance is neat, tidy, controlled. We couldn’t look more different. She stands too close, waiting for me to say something. Her perfume infiltrates my nostrils, my throat, I can taste it on my tongue. Familiar but dangerous. Sickly sweet.

      ‘I thought you were going out after work tonight?’ says Paul from his seat.

      His eyes narrow slightly at the sight of my shopping bags, some new outfits folded neatly in a cradle of tissue paper inside. I silently dare him to say something. It’s my money, I earned it. I’ll spend it on what I like. I put the bags down, noticing the deep red grooves the plastic handles have carved into my fingers.

      ‘Something came up,’ I say in Paul’s direction, before turning to Claire: ‘I didn’t know you were coming round. Is everything all right?’ I know what’s going on here.

      ‘Everything’s fine, David is working late, again. I came over to see you for a girly chat, but I forgot that unlike me you have a social life.’

      She’s trying too hard, her smile looks like it’s hurting her face.

      ‘Where are the children?’ I ask. Her smile fades.

      ‘With a neighbour, they’re fine. I wouldn’t leave them with anyone unreliable.’ She turns to Paul, but he just stares at the floor. Her lips are stained from the wine and her cheeks a little flushed; she has never been able to handle her drink. I see it then, the look in her eyes; that flash of danger that I’ve seen before. She knows I’ve spotted it and that I haven’t forgotten what it means. ‘I should go, it’s later than I thought,’ she says.

      ‘I’d invite you to stay, but I need to talk to my husband.’ I meant to say Paul, but my subconscious deemed it necessary to change the script.

      ‘Of course. Well, I’ll see you both soon. Hope everything is OK at work,’ she says, picking up her coat and bag, leaving her half-drunk glass of wine on the table. As soon as the door closes, I am overwhelmed with regret. I know I should go after her, apologise, so she knows I still love her, that we’re OK. But I don’t.

      ‘Well, that was awkward,’ says Paul.

      I don’t respond, don’t even look at him. Instead, I double-lock the front door without thinking then pick up Claire’s glass and walk out to the kitchen. He follows me and stands in the doorway as I tip the crimson liquid into the sink. Dark red splashes stain the white porcelain and I turn on the tap to wash them away.

      ‘Yes, it was a little strange coming home to find my husband and sister enjoying a cosy night in together.’ The memory of the wine I drank myself